


Senses

by LadyKes



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 23:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKes/pseuds/LadyKes
Summary: All five senses really were required for the work of a good copper.





	Senses

**Author's Note:**

> This was a bit of a personal challenge or writing exercise or whatever you'd like to call it. Could I write about all five senses in relation to Jack (and inevitably, Phryne)? Then I made it an extra challenge for myself - 100 words of intro, 200 words per sense, 100 words of conclusion. The word count is right, but my actual success at this will have to be judged by you.

One of the best lectures he’d ever heard had been delivered by a Detective Inspector who was seventy if he was a day, but there was nothing wrong with the man’s mind. He’d told the prospective constables that there was no substitute for paying attention and using one’s senses. He’d had them list all five and then give examples of how they might be used. If the answer wasn’t good enough, he made them try again until he was satisfied. Some of the most arrogant would-be constables were cut down to size by that lesson -- and Jack never forgot it. 

Sometimes he wished he could forget that particular advice, of course. His sense of smell was assaulted by the odor of a corpse on a regular basis. If he was lucky, the deceased had only been in that state for a little while. If he wasn’t lucky, breathing through the mouth and placing a drop of eucalyptus oil just below the nose did wonders. That had been a tip from an old constable and Jack had been grateful for it. He’d passed it along to every officer he’d had the pleasure to train, and he hoped they’d pass it along to any officer they trained. Even beyond corpses, though, he tended to smell unpleasant things. Stale alcohol, wet wool, unwashed bodies, and stale alcohol on wet wool on unwashed bodies were all a normal part of his day. It was part of the job, and he knew that. Sometimes, though, he smelled good things. A cake, baking bread, fresh flowers, or a subtle French perfume all improved his day. And if he was having dinner with Miss Fisher, well, he might smell all four at the same time. It very nearly made up for the wet wool and the corpses. 

For the sense of sight, the first item that came to mind was blood, of course. He saw so much of that as a copper and had seen so much more of it in the trenches. He’d wondered sometimes whether he would ever stop seeing it as a person’s blood, and then decided if he did, it was time to give up his warrant card. As far as he was concerned, a police officer who didn’t see the people behind the crime was ready for pasture. He never wanted to not see suffering. He never wanted to see a disaster and not consider his place in helping those going through it. The way he considered it, if he didn’t see suffering anymore, he also might not see joy. He didn’t want to not see a family being reunited after a child had got lost or an innocent person being released. He didn’t want to not notice the flowers on his walk home. He didn’t want to step into Miss Fisher’s parlor and not notice her latest outlandish dress or strangely colored cocktail. If he ever stopped seeing suffering, he might stop seeing joy, and then he’d stop seeing Miss Fisher. 

He hadn’t known so many curse words existed in the world until he became a police officer. Of course he’d said a few salty things as a lad, mostly to see what it felt like, but his mum had always said that cursing was a lazy way to communicate feelings and opinions. Well, if that was true, nearly all the people he was picking up were very lazy indeed. They cursed, complained, and offered excuses for what they’d done or not done. At first, he’d been a little gullible and had believed some of the excuses, but he didn’t anymore. Plenty of people would lie right to his face while looking as innocent as could be. It was the sort of thing that could make a man cynical, but he fought against that. Just as he never wanted to stop seeing people suffering, he didn’t want to not hear the birds chirping or the ocean crashing against the foreshore. He didn’t want to not hear Miss Fisher’s way of greeting him. No one else in the world said his name quite like she did, especially when she had managed to get to a crime scene before he and Collins did.

Taste was the sense he used the least on the job and the sense he thought he would be able to do without if it were to suddenly disappear. He could do without terrible canteen tea, indifferent chips, and dodgy street pies eaten at unlikely hours. He could do without the smells from the visitors and temporary (or permanent) inhabitants of the station, which were often so strong they were practically a taste. He could definitely do without the tang of blood in his mouth when a suspect got one in past his guard, although that happened far less often now. If he gave up taste, though, he’d have to give up his mum’s biscuits and Sunday roasts. He’d have to give up peppermint lozenges, which were so helpful if he had a touch of cold from too many late nights chasing suspects or finishing paperwork. He’d have to give up the first long cool sip of a pint after a hot day of working in the garden. And worst of all, he’d have to give up dinners with Miss Fisher. Mr Butler’s creations were far too good to let them be wasted on someone with no sense of taste. 

The day he’d been given his first pair of handcuffs, he’d been startled by their weight. They seemed to be heavier than they should be and he wondered if it was his imagination adding the figurative weight of them to the literal weight. Since then, he’d gotten so used to having them with him that if he didn’t, he felt like he’d forgotten his hat. Even more than his warrant card, his handcuffs were a tactile reminder of the responsibility of his job. After his handcuffs, handshakes came to mind. He’d gotten used to both the wet fish handshake and the kind that left his entire hand aching. That second kind always made him suspicious. They usually came from someone who wanted him to be intimidated. He was generally about as intimidated as he was when presented with a fuzzy kitten, though, which reminded him of the time a box of those had been left at the station. Thinking of that reminded him of Miss Fisher, though he generally tried not to consider Miss Fisher in terms of touch. It was just better for all if he didn’t, although he wasn’t sure Miss Fisher would agree with that particular conclusion.

All five senses really were required for the work of a good copper, no matter what their official title was, and all five senses had been invaluable to him, just like the old copper had told them they would be. Jack had used his five senses to solve crimes, find suspects, examine evidence, and question witnesses. He’d needed all five, even if he hadn’t always wanted all five. And all five helped him appreciate what Miss Fisher had brought to his life, good and bad. He couldn’t give up any of his senses and he couldn’t give up Miss Fisher.


End file.
